The Thin Ice
by Sad eyed Lady of The Low Life
Summary: "Right now Sherlock, you're more of a liability than a necessity. I am your only friend at the met and that is using 'friend' generously. So you act high and mighty all you like - my friend," he hissed. "Act like your better me, but we both know neither of us really believe that." Before SiP Lestrade is sick of Sherlock's behaviour. Rated T for bad language.


Authors Note: Ok... I have been pretty much dormant for the past few months. I can blame many things... and I do blame them... All I can do is come here hat in hand, head bowed in shame, words of apology on my lips and hope for the best. :)

This story was kinda inspired by Pink Floyd's The Thin Ice hence the title. Its a prequel to SiP and whether or not it is Slash or Platonic is up to the reader/wearer of slash googles.

Anywho - Its good to back! Enjoy!

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Thin_ Ice_

The stale, rank smell of damp and piss and some other god forsaken substances that Lestrade didn't even want to think about, lingered in the building. The walls were smoke-stained, a dirty off-yellow that had probably been originally white and gleaming in the buildings younger days. The floors, which had once been carpeted, were now devoid of any covering, the old, rotting floor boards creaking as he passed through. He remembered this place from his youth... as far as he could tell it had always been this way. He tripped as he tried maneuvering around the rubbish and debris that littered the hallways of the apartment block on the wrong side of town.

Well he shouldn't say wrong side, he was from around here after all. But it certainly wasn't the right side of town. Definitely not the right side of town for a pissant like Sherlock fucking Holmes, who so far, had manage to rub everyone on the metropolitan police up the wrong way, leaving Saint Lestrade to deal with him. It wasn't that Sherlock was too delicate for a place like this, it was just...he didn't fit in. Growing up not far from here, Lestrade knew that when he was younger, if he had seen a tosser like Sherlock Holmes walking around the estates he probably would have given him a hiding himself. The prat would probably have deserved it too.

Lestrade grimaced at the thought. He thought he had left that side of him behind here, but Sherlock Holmes tended to not only bring out the best in some people but perhaps more commonly the worst in people.

Lestrade reached the last apartment on the 3rd floor of the dilapidated tenement building and knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

He signed loudly before knocking again.

No answer.

Right... that was it...

He banged his fist repeatedly as he shouted "HOLMES OPEN UP!"

Finally he heard shuffling about from inside and the door's deadbolt unlocked with a rusty click.

"Lestrade! Come home for the holidays?" He stepped aside and let Greg step in.

Greg walked through to the living room, which consisted of the same chipped, smoked-stained walls as the hallway, a faded, dirty red carpet on the floor and a mattress pushed into the corner of the room.

He turned and got a proper look at Sherlock. Sherlock's face was puffy and red, a bruise formed on his eye and dried blood sticking to his noise. Blood and dirt stained all along the front of Sherlock's previously white but now greying shirt.

Turns out that people around this area didn't change after all.

He shook his head in annoyance, but before he got to ask Sherlock what he had got himself into, his fucking lordship began mouthing off.

"Banging at the door? Very uncivilized Lestrade. I suppose being back in the old estate brings out the trash in you."

Lestrade raised his finger and poked Sherlock in the shoulder.

"I'd watch that fucking mouth of yours, if I were you Holmes." Lestrade growled. "Right now I'm the only friend you've got in the fucking world."

Sherlock smirked crookedly and pushed past Lestrade. Flopping down on the mattress he began again.

"Look! Even the accent is coming out thicker!" Sherlock laughed.

Lestrades eyes narrowed fractionally, enough to let Sherlock know he was pushing it. So naturally he continued to do so.

He spoke as he pulled a cigarette and lighter from somewhere behind the mattress and placed the tip of the cigarette between pale lips. "Hitting some nerves are we Lestrade? Ashamed of where you're from?" Sherlock tutted. "What would your father say if he saw the shame radiating off you now?"

He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply before blowing a bluish tendril of smoke out of the corner of his lips. "Oh thats right. You don't have a father... never did I expect." Sherlock commented off handedly.

Lestrade doesn't know to this day how he did it, he was just thankful to the powers that be that he did. Instead of grabbing Sherlock and giving him a proper beating (since the one he already gotten failed to beat any manners into him), Greg took one look around the room - _Drug Paraphernalia_ was the technical term for what lay strewn about the room.

He wasn't going to look past it anymore. He had told Sherlock before, if he came across him in this state ever again he would arrest him. If there was one admirable quality to DI Lestrade (and there were many) it was that he never made idle threats.

His blood was boiling. It was bad enough to watch Sherlock throw his life away, it was another to let the colossal prick try and drag him down as well. He pulled out his hand cuffs and yanked Sherlock up from the bed, spun him around and pushed him, face first into the wall.

"Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest with suspicion of being in possession of and under the influence of illegal substances."

"Oh! Kinky!" Sherlock smirked.

"...You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

Sherlock laughed. "Growing a pair are we Lestrade? Took you long enough."

Lestrade turned him around and pushed him back against the wall.

"Look you little shit, I am not here to listen to your bullshit, I am not here to fucking baby sit you. I fucking know your type. Poor little rich boy. '_My mother ignored me, I never saw my father because __his job was more important to him than me. Look at me living in squalor while I get fucked up on drugs because of the piss-poor job my parents did at raising me. Look at me living in a dive, paying for rent and drugs with my trust fund. Oh woe is fucking me.'_ Well you are walking on very thin ice here. I know your brother will get you out of this. I'm not fucking stupid, but I won't fucking watch you destroy the one fucking thing you are good at. You want to help the Met? You will follow some fucking rules, or so help me I will make it my duty to destroy you. Your brother can threaten me all he likes, I've nothing left to lose."

Sherlock looked stunned. He hadn't expected Lestrade to bring up Mycroft. It had been an unspoken rule with them. He did some dumb fuck thing and Mycroft got him out of it. Lestrade seethed for a few days and then never mentioned it.

Lestrade turned away from him and push his right hand through his silver-grey hair. Taking a deep breath he turned to face Sherlock again. If it was possible it looked as if he had gained 10 years in the course of a 10 minute meeting. His face looked drawn out and thin, a 5 o'clock shadow making him look like more like an alcoholic than a Detective Inspector. He put his hands in his pockets and took a step closer to Sherlock.

"Right now Sherlock, you're more of a liability than a necessity. I am your only friend at the met and that is using 'friend' generously. So you act high and mighty all you like - _my friend_," he hissed. "Act like your better me, but we both know neither of us really believe that."

Sherlock glared at him. However a flicker of doubt passed across his face, a slight tremor in his eyes. Lestrade struck a nerve. It was like poking at an open wound, Lestrade couldn't help himself as he continued.

"So I came from an estate right near here, a rough one too. So I didn't have a father to help my mother, who raised me on fucking minimum wage. So I may have done some stupid things in my youth but at least I made something of myself. I did something with my life. What the fuck have you done with your life Holmes? Sitting here wasting the gifts you were given."

And there is was. The challenge. Not spoken in words, but in an accusation. _What the fuck have you done with your life?_ Lestrade was daring him – make something of yourself. Use your gifts.

Sherlock remained silent as Lestrade lead him out of the room and down the hallway of the apartment block and out to the car outside. Sherlock sat in the back seat of the sedan and observed the DI.

He hated to admit it, but Lestrade had his moments of wisdom. Maybe this was something he could do full time, for when the drugs wore off and the boredom began to stagnate. Something he could use to keep his mind busy. Doubt flickered in the back of his mind. Could he kick the habit he had formed due to the unbearable boredom and tediousness of life?

For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt out of his depth. He might have just bitten off more then he could chew this time, but god help him if he didn't love a challenge...

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Authors Note: Hopefully it wasn't too terrible... :) Please R&R if you would be so kind!


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